his own choosing, who should unite to a pedigree as noble as that of the Howards, all qualifications which should fit him to represent the house into which he should be adopted; and who should be willing to drop his own paternal name and bearings, how ancient and noble soever, in order to adopt the style and the arms of Fitz-Henry. At times, indeed, he might be a little grave and thoughtful, especially at such times as he heard mention made of the promise or success of this or that scion of some noble house; but it was only within his own family circle, and to his most familiar friends, that he was wont to open his heart, and complain of his ill-fortune, at being the first childless father of his he still, strange contradiction! loved fondly and affectionately, he was accustomed in his dark hours to style himself; as if forsooth an heir male were the only offspring worthy to be called the child of such a house. Proud by nature, by blood, and by education-race-for so, in his contempt for the poor girls, whom though with a clear and honorable pride-he had been rendered a thousand times prouder and more haughty by the very circumstances which seemed to threaten a downfall to the fortunes of his house-his house, which had survived such desperate reverses; which had come out of every trial, like pure gold, the better and the brighter from the furnace-his house, which neither the ruin of friendly monarchs, nor the persecutions of hostile monarchs, nor the neglect of un-pointment and disgust to break out to their annoygrateful monarchs, had been able to shake, any more than the autumnal blasts, or the frosts of winter, had availed to uproot the oak trees of his park, coeval with his name. In the midst of health and wealth, honor and good esteem, with an affectionate family, and a devoted household around him, Allan Fitz-Henry fancied himself a most unhappy man-perhaps the most unhappy of mankind. Though he was fond, and gentle, and at times even tender to his motherless daughters-for, to do him justice, he never suffered a symptom of his disap ance, yet was there no gleam of paternal satisfaction in his sad eye, no touch of paternal pride in his vexed heart, as he looked upon their graceful forms, and noted their growing beauties. And yet they were a pair of whom the haughtiest potentate on earth might have been proud, and with justice. Blanche and Agnes Fitz-Henry were at this time in their eighteenth and seventeenth years-but one Alas! was it to punish such vain, such sinful, such summer having passed between their births, and senseless, and inordinate repinings? their mother having died within a few hours after the latter saw the light. Who shall presume to scrutinize the judgments, or pry into the secrets of the Inscrutable? This much alone is certain, that ere he was gathered to his fathers, Allan Fitz-Henry might, and that not unjustly, have termed himself that, which now, in the very wantonness of pampered and insatiate success he swore that he was daily-the most unhappy of the sons of men. For to calamities so dreadful as might have disturbed the reason of the strongest minded, remorse was added, so just, so terrible, so overwhelming, that men actually marveled how he lived on and was not insane. But I must not anticipate. It was a short time after the failure of the Duke of Monmouth's weak and ungrateful attempt at revolution, a short time after the conclusion of the merciless and bloody butcheries of that disgrace to the English ermine, the ferocious Jefferies, that the incidents occurred, which I learned first on the evening subsequent to my discovery in the fatal summer-house. At this time Allan Fitz-Henry-it was a singular proof, by the way, of the hereditary pride of this old Norman race, that having numbered among them so many friends and counsellors of monarchs, no one of their number had been found willing to accept titular honors, holding it a higher thing to be the premier gentleman than the junior peer of England-At this time, I say, Allan Fitz-Henry was a man of some forty-five or fifty years, well built and handsome, of courtly air and dignified presence; nor must it be imagined that in his fancied grievances he forgot to support the character of his family, or that he carried his griefs abroad with him into the world. They were, indeed, as lovely girls as the sun of merry England shone upon; and in those days it was still merry England, and famous then as now for the rare beauty of its women, whether in the first dawn of girlhood, or in the full-blown flush of feminine maturity. Both tall, above the middle height of women, both exquisitely formed, with figures delicate and slender, yet full withal, and voluptuously rounded, with the long taper hands, the small and shapely feet and ankles, the swan-like necks, and classic heads gracefully set on, which are held to denote, in all countries, the predominance of gentle blood; when seen at a distance, and judged by the person only, it would have been almost impossible to distinguish the elder from the younger sister. But look upon them face to face, and never, in all respects, were two girls of kindred race so entirely dissimilar. The elder, Blanche, was, as her name denotes, though ladies' names are oftentimes misnomers, a genuine English blonde. Her abundant and beautiful hair, trained to float down upon her snowy shoulders in silky masses of unstudied curls, was of the lightest golden brown. There was not a shade of red in its hues, although her complexion was of that peculiarly dazzling character which is common to red-haired persons; yet when the sun shone on its glistening waves, so brilliantly did the golden light flash from it, that you might almost have imagined there was a circlet of living glory above her clear white brow. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were many shades darker than her hair, relieving her face altogether from that charge of insipidity which is so often, and for the most part so truly, brought against fair-haired | like damask roses seen through the medium of a goldand fair-featured beauties. The eyes themselves, tinted window-pane. which those long lashes shrouded, were of the deepest violet blue; so deep, that at first sight you would have deemed them black, but for the soft and humid languor which is never seen in eyes of that color. The rest of her features were as near as possible to the Grecian model, except that there was a slight depression where the nose joins the brow, breaking that perfectly straight line of the classical face, which, however beautiful to the statue, is less attractive in life than the irregular outline of the northern countenance. Her mouth, with the exception of-perhaps I should rather say in conjunction with-her eyes, was the most lovely and expressive feature in her face. There were twin dimples at its corners; yet was not its expression one of habitual mirth, but of tenderness and softness rather, unmixed, although an anchorite might have been pardoned the wish to press his lips to its voluptuous curve, with the slightest expression of sensuality. Her complexion was, as I have said, dazzlingly brilliant; but it was the brilliance of the lily rather than of the rose, though at the least emotion, whether of pain or pleasure, the eloquent blood would rush, like the morning's glow over some snow-crowned Alp, across cheek, brow, and neck, and bosom, and vanish thence so rapidly, that ere you should have time to say, nay, even to think, "Look! look how beautiful, 't was fled." Such was the elder beauty, the destined heiress of the ancient house, the promised mother of a line of sons, who should perpetuate the name and hand down the principles of the Fitz-Henries to far distant ages. Such were the musings of her father, Her brows and lashes were as black as night, but, strange to say, the eyes that flashed from beneath them with an almost painful splendor, were of a clear, deep azure, less dark than those of the fairer sister, giving a singular and wild character to her whole face, and affecting the style of her beauty, but whether for the better or the worse it was for those who admired or shunned-and there were who took both parts-to determine. Her face was rounder and fuller than her sister's, and, in fact, this was true of her whole person-so much so that she was often mistaken for the elder-her features were less regular, her nose having a slight tendency to that form which has no name in our language, but which charmed all beholders in Roxana, as retroussie. Her mouth was as warm, as soft, as sweetly dimpled, but it was not free from that expression which Blanche's lacked altogether, and might have been blamed as too wooing and luxurious. Such were the various characters of the sisters' personal appearance-the characters of their mental attributes were as distinctly marked, and as widely different. Blanche was all gentleness and moderation from her very cradle-a delicate and tender child, smiling always, but rarely laughing; never boisterous or loud even in her childish plays. And as she grew older, this character became more definite, and was more strongly observed; she was a pensive, tranquil creature, not melancholy, much less sad-for she was awake to all that was beautiful or grand, all that was sweet or gentle in the face of nature, or in the history of man; and there was, perhaps, more real happiness concealed under her calm exterior, than is often to be found under the wilder mirth of merrier beings. Ever ready to yield her wishes to those of her friends or companions, many persons imagined and at such times alone, if ever, a sort of doubtful that she had little will, and no fixed wishes, or depride would come to swell his hope, whispering that liberate aspirations-passionless and pure as the lily for such a creature, no man, however high or haughty, of the vale, many supposed that she was cold and but would be willing to renounce the pride of birth, heartless. Oh! ignorant! not to remember that the even untempted by the demesnes of Ditton-in-the-hearts of the fiercest volcanos boil still beneath a head Dale, and many another lordly manor coupled to the of snow; and that it is even in the calmest and most motime-honored name of Fitz-Henry. Proh! cœca mens mortalium! Her sister, Agnes, though not less beautiful than Elanche-and there were those who insisted that she was more so—was as different from her, in all but the general resemblance of figure and carriage, as night is from morning, or autumn from early summer-time. Her ringlets, not less profuse than Blanche's, and clustering in closer and more mazy curls, were as black as the raven's wing, and, like the feathers of the wild bird, were lighted up when the sun played on them with a sort of purplish and metallic gloss, that defes alike the pen of the writer, and the painter's pencil to depict to the eye. Her complexion, though soft and delicate, was of the very darkest hue that is ever seen in persons of unmixed European blood; so dark that the very blood which would mantle to her cheek at times in burning bushes, was shaded, as it were, with a darker hue, derate characters that passion once enkindled burns fierce, perennial and unquenchable! Thus far, however, had she advanced into the flower of fair maidenhood, undisturbed by any warmer dream than devoted affection toward her parent, whose wayward grief she could understand if she could not appreciate, and whom she strove by every gentle wile to wean from his morbid fancies; and earnest love toward her sister, whom she, indeed, almost adored—perhaps adored the more from the very difference of their minds, and for her very imperfections. For Agnes was all gay vivacity, and petulance, and fire-so that her young companions, who sportively named Blanche the icicle, had christened her the sunbeam; and, in truth, if the first name were ill chosen, the second seemed to be an inspiration; for like a sunbeam that touched nothing but to illuminate it, like a sunbeam she played with all things, smiled on all things in their turn-like a sunbeam she brought mirth with her presence, and after her departure, left a double gloom behind her. More dazzling than Blanche, she made her impression at first sight, and so long as the skies were clear, and the atmosphere unruffled, the sunbeam would continue to gild, to charm, to be worshiped. But if the time of darkness and affliction came, the gay sunbeam held aloof, while the poor icicle, melted from its seeming coldness, was ever ready to weep for the sorrows of those who had neglected her in the days of their happiness. Unused to yield, high-spirited when crossed, yet carrying off even her stubbornness and quick temper by the brilliancy, the wit, the lively and bold audacity which she cast around them, Agnes ruled in her circle an imperious and despotic queen; while her slaves, even as they trembled before her half sportive but emphatic frown, did not suspect the sceptre of the tyrant beneath the spell of the enchantress. Agnes, in one word, was the idol of the rich and gay; Blanche was the saint of the poor, the lowly, the sick, and those who mourn. It may be that the peculiarity of her position, the neglect which she had always experienced from her father, and mediately from the hirelings of the household, ever prompt to pander to the worst feelings of their superiors-the consciousness that born coheiress with her sister, she was doomed to sink into the insignificance of an undowered and uncaredfor girl, had tended in some degree to form the character which Agnes had ever borne, and which alone she had displayed, until the period when my tale commences. For if If it were so, however, there were no outward indications that such was the case; for never were there seen two sisters more united and affectionatenor would it have been easy to say on which side the balance of kindness preponderated. Blanche was ever the first to cede to her sister's wishes, and the last, in any momentary disappointment or annoyance, to speak one quick or unkind word, so was Agnes, with her expressive features, and flashing eye, and ready, tameless wit, prompt as light to avenge the slightest reflection cast on Blanche's tranquillity and coldness; and if at times a quick word or sharp retort broke from her lips, and called a tear to the eye of her calmer sister, not a moment would elapse before she would cast herself upon her neck and weep her sincere contrition, and be for hours an altered being; until her natural spirit would prevail, and she would be again the wild, mirthful madcap, whose very faults could call forth no keener reproach than a grave and thoughtful smile from the lips of those who loved her the most dearly. Sad were the daughters of Allan Fitz-Henrydaughters whom not a peer in England but would have regarded as the brightest gems of his coronets, as the pride and ornament of his house; but whom, by a strange anomaly, their own father, full as he was of warm affections, and kindly inclinations, never looked upon but with a secret feeling of dis content and disappointment, that they were not othe than they were: and with a half confessed convic tion, that fair as they were, tender, and loving, grace ful, accomplished, delicate and noble-minded, h could have borne to lay them both in the cold grave so that a son could be given to the house, in exchang for their lost loveliness. In outward demeanor, however, he was to h children all that a father should be; a little queruloi at times, perhaps, and irritable, but fond, though n doting, and considerate; and I have wandered great from my intention, if any thing that I have said h been construed to signify that there existed the sligl est estrangement between the father and his childr It may be that the consciousness of wrong endured, had hardened a heart naturally soft and tender, and rendered it unyielding and rebellious-it may be that injustice, endured at the hands of hirelings in early years, had engendered a spirit of resistance, and armed her mind and quickened her tongue against the world, which, as she fancied, wronged her. It may be, more than all, that a secret, perhaps an unconscious jealousy of her sister's superior advantages,|--for had Allan Fitz-Henry but suspected the pos not in the wretched sense of worldly wealth or position, but of the love and reverence of friends and kindred, had embittered her young soul, and caused her to cast over it a veil of light and wild demeanor, of free speech, and daring mirth, which had by degrees grown into habits, and become part and parcel of her nature. bility of such a thing, he had torn the false pride, li a venomous weed, from his heart, and had beer wiser and a happier man. In his case it was 1 blindness of the heart that caused its partial hardne but events were at hand, that should flood it with clearest light, and melt it to more than woma tenderness. [To be continu SONNET TO GRAHAM. ON, in thy mission! "T is a holy power Bloom now and brighten, 'neath thy magic art. New Orleans, October 1, 1847. Stream upon stream of beauty. All that's true, All that is brave and beautiful, 't is thineHigh office, high and holy! thus to shed, Sun-like, and sole, in shadow or in shine, Thoughts that bedew and rouse minds cold and de Startling the pulse that stirred not. This is thine! Be proudly humble: 't is a power divine! ALTI MARGINALIA. BY EDGAR A. POE. WE mere men of the world, with no principle-bling myself to ascertain whether Doctors Johnson a very old-fashioned and cumbersome thing-should and Campbell are wrong, or whether Pope is wrong, be on our guard lest, fancying him on his last legs, or whether the reviewer is right or wrong, at this we insult, or otherwise maltreat some poor devil of point or at that, let me succinctly state what is the a genius at the very instant of his putting his foot on truth on the topics at issue. the top round of his ladder of triumph. It is a common trick with these fellows, when on the point of attaining some long-cherished end, to sink themselves into the deepest possible abyss of seeming despair, for no other purpose than that of increasing the space of success through which they have made up their minds immediately to soar. All that the man of genius demands for his exaltation is moral matter in motion. It makes no differ ence whither tends the motion-whether for him or against him—and it is absolutely of no consequence "what is the matter." In Colton's "American Review" for October, 1845, gentleman, well known for his scholarship, has a orcible paper on "The Scotch School of Philosophy and Criticism." But although the paper is "forcible," I presents the most singular admixture of error and ruth-the one dovetailed into the other, after a ashion which is novel, to say the least of it. Were to designate in a few words what the whole article demonstrated, I should say "the folly of not begining at the beginning-of neglecting the giant Moulieau's advice to his friend Ram." Here is a passage om the essay in question: "The Doctors [Campbell and Johnson] both charge Pope with error and inconsistency:-error in suping that in English, of metrical lines unequal the number of syllables and pronounced in equal mes, the longer suggests celerity (this being the rinciple of the Alexandrine :)-inconsistency, in that ope himself uses the same contrivance to convey e contrary idea of slowness. But why in English? is not and cannot be disputed that, in the Hexaeter verse of the Greeks and Latins-which is the odel in this matter-what is distinguished as the dactylic line' was uniformly applied to express elocity. How was it to do so? Simply from the et of being pronounced in an equal time with, while ontaining a greater number of syllables or 'bars' an the ordinary or average measure; as, on the her hand, the spondaic line, composed of the minium number, was, upon the same principle, used to dicate slowness. So, too, of the Alexandrine in glish versification. No, says Campbell, there is a ference: the Alexandrine is not in fact, like the otylic line, pronounced in the common time. But this alter the principle? What is the rationale Metre, whether the classical hexameter or the nglish heroic?" I have written an essay on the "Rationale of e," in which the whole topic is surveyed ab tio, and with reference to general and immutable ciples. To this essay (which will soon appear) reier Mr. Bristed. In the meantime, without trou And first; the same principles, in all cases, govern all verse. What is true in English is true in Greek. Secondly; in a series of lines, if one line contains more syllables than the law of the verse demands, and if, nevertheless, this line is pronounced in the same time, upon the whole, as the rest of the lines, then this line suggests celerity-on account of the increased rapidity of enunciation required. Thus in the Greek Hexameter the dactylic lines-those most abounding in dactyls-serve best to convey the idea of rapid motion. The spondaic lines convey that of slowness. "Thirdly; it is a gross mistake to suppose that the Greek dactylic line is "the model in this matter" -the matter of the English Alexandrine. The Greek dactylic line is of the same number of feet-barsbeats-pulsations-as the ordinary dactylic-spondaic lines among which it occurs. But the Alexandrine is longer by one foot-by one pulsation—than the pentameters among which it arises. For its pronunciation it demands more time, and therefore, ceteris paribus, it would well serve to convey the impres sion of length, or duration, and thus, indirectly, of slowness. I say ceteris paribus. But, by varying conditions, we can effect a total change in the impression conveyed. When the idea of slowness is conveyed by the Alexandrine, it is not conveyed by any slower enunciation of syllables-that is to say, it is not directly conveyed-but indirectly, through the idea of length in the whole line. Now, if we wish to convey, by means of an Alexandrine, the impression of velocity, we readily do so by giving rapidity to our enunciation of the syllables composing the several feet. To effect this, however, we must have more syllables, or we shall get through the whole line too quickly for the intended time. To get more syllables, all we have to do, is to use, in place of iambuses, what our prosodies call anaposts* Thus, in the line, Flies o'er the unbending corn and skims along the main, the syllables "the unbend" form an anapost and, demanding unusual rapidity of enunciation, in order that we may get them in in the ordinary time of an I use the prosodial word "anapost," merely because here I have no space to show what the reviewer will admit I have distinetly shown in the essay referred to viz: that the additional syllable introduced, does not make the foot an anapest, or the equivalent of an anapost, and that, if it did, it would spoil the line. On this topic, and on all topics connected with verse, there is not a prosody in existence which is not a mere jumble of the grossest error. גי iambus, serve to suggest celerity. By the elision of e in the, as is customary,, the whole of the intended effect is lost; for th'unbend is nothing more than the usual iambus. In a word, wherever an Alexandrine expresses celerity, we shall find it to contain one or more anaposts-the more anaposts, the more decided the impression. But the tendency of the Alexandrine consisting merely of the usual iambuses, is to convey slowness-although it conveys this idea feebly, on account of conveying it indirectly. It follows, from what I have said, that the common pentameter, interspersed with anaposts, would better convey celerity than the Alexandrine interspersed with them in a similar degree;—and it unquestionably does. To converse well, we need the cool tact of talent -to talk well, the glowing abandon of genius. Men of very high genius, however, talk at one time very well, at another very ill-well, when they have full time, full scope, and a sympathetic listener: -ill, when they fear interruption and are annoyed by the impossibility of exhausting the topic during that particular talk. The partial genius is flashy scrappy. The true genius shudders at incompleteness-imperfection-and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not every thing that should be said. He is so filled with his theme that he is dumb, first from not knowing how to begin, where there seems eternally beginning behind beginning, and secondly from perceiving his true end at so infinite a distance. Sometimes, dashing into a subject, he blunders, hesitates, stops short, sticks fast, and, because he has been overwhelmed by the rush and multiplicity of his thoughts, his hearers sneer at his inability to think. Such a man finds his proper element in those "great occasions" which confound and prostrate the general intellect. Nevertheless, by his conversation, the influence of the conversationist upon mankind in general, is more decided than that of the talker by his talk:the latter invariably talks to best purpose with his pen. And good conversationists are more rare than respectable talkers. I know many of the latter; and of the former only five or six-among whom I can call to mind, just now, Mr. Willis, Mr. J. T. S. S.of Philadelphia, Mr. W. M. R.—of Petersburg, Va., and Mrs. Sd, formerly of New York. Most people, in conversing, force us to curse our stars that our lot was not cast among the African nation mentioned by Eudoxus-the savages who, having no mouths, never opened them, as a matter of course. And yet, if denied mouth, some persons whom I have in my eye would contrive to chatter on still-as they do now-through the nose. All in a hot and copper sky The bloody sun at noon Just up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon.-COLERIDGE. Is it possible that the poet did not know the apparent diameter of the moon to be greater than that of the sun? If any ambitious man have a fancy to revolutionize, at one effort, the universal world of human thought, human opinion, and human sentiment, the opportunity is his own--the road to immortal renown lies straight, open, and unencumbered before him. All that he has to do is to write and publish a very little book. Its title should be simple-a few plain words-"My Heart Laid Bare." But-this little book must be true to its title. Now, is it not very singular that, with the rabid thirst for notoriety which distinguishes so many of mankind-so many, too, who care not a fig what is thought of them after death, there should not be found one man having sufficient hardihood to write this little book? To write, I say. There are ten thousand men who, if the book were once written, would laugh at the notion of being disturbed by its publication during their life, and who could not even conceive why they should object to its being published after. their death. But to write it-there is the rub. No man dare write it. No man ever will dare write it. No man could write it, even if he dared. The paper would shrivel and blaze at every touch of the fiery pen. For all the rhetorician's rules Teach nothing but to name the tools.-HUDIBRAS. What these oft-quoted lines go to show is, that a falsity in verse will travel faster and endure longe than a falsity in prose. The man who would snee or stare at a silly proposition nakedly put, will admi ̧ that "there is a good deal in that" when "that" i the point of an epigram shot into the ear. The rhe torician's rules-if they are rules-teach him not onl to name his tools, but to use his tools, the capacity e his tools-their extent—their limit; and from an e amination of the nature of the tools-(an examinatic forced on him by their constant presence)-force hir also, into scrutiny and comprehension of the materi on which the tools are employed, and thus, finall suggest and give birth to new material for new too Among his eidola of the den, the tribe, the forw the theatre, etc., Bacon might well have plac the great eidolon of the parlor (or of the wit, as have termed it in one of the previous Marginalia the idol whose worship blinds man to truth by d zling him with the apposite. But what title co have been invented for that idol which has pro gated, perhaps, more of gross error than all ec bined?-the one, I mean, which demands from votaries that they reciprocate cause and effect-rea in a circle-lift themselves from the ground by pull up their pantaloons-and carry themselves on t own heads, in hand-baskets, from Beersheba to I All-absolutely all the argumentation which I h seen on the nature of the soul, or of the Deity, se to me nothing but worship of this unnameable i Pour savoir ce qu'est Dieu, says Bielfeld, althc nobody listens to the solemn truth, il faut être I même-and to reason about the reason is of all th the most unreasonable. At least, he alone is fi discuss the topic who perceives at a glance the sanity of its discussion. |